


love me tender, love me sweet

by allmyboisarethebestbois



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Depression, Desire, Falling In Love, Light Angst, M/M, No smut but rev does have some explicit thoughts, Pining, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 20:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30010356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allmyboisarethebestbois/pseuds/allmyboisarethebestbois
Summary: Pathfinder holds him in his arms to heal him, the problem is that Revenant can't stop thinking about how much he wants him.
Relationships: Pathfinder/Revenant (Apex Legends)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	love me tender, love me sweet

**Author's Note:**

> im suffering intense writers block, so i wrote this little diddy in hopes it gets my writing juices back. :P

Fucking Kraber, a lovely weapon when you have it, not so lovely on the receiving end though, shot through his shields and left him bleeding out in a matter of seconds. It was his own fault really; he shouldn’t have been fiddling with his scope out in the open knowing how many people crowded in and around the bunker. He harshly presses his palm against the oil seeping wound, he can hear Pathfinders grapple lurch and land into the sand beside him as his teammate rushes over and something braces in the depths of his non-existent stomach as he nears. He turns his head away, god damn it he doesn’t have _time_ for this, doesn’t have time to analyse why Pathfinder makes him feel the way he does, especially in the middle of a game. Why all his thoughts come to a stop when his gaze shifts his way, why his mechanic body suffers heat malfunctions when his arm brushes his. He spent each and every day ignoring it, brushing it away, shoving it down and yet that only seemed to make it worse to the point of a strange aching settling in his chest.

And that aching, it never went away, it stuck to him like the most powerful super glue in the universe and hardened until it _hurt_. He felt it sitting in the common rooms waiting for the dropship, he felt it whilst sprinting down a hill mid game, but worst of all, he felt it at home, in his shitty little apartment where he sat alone with nothing to distract him. At home, it truly struck him, swirling around uncomfortably in his heart and in his head every little thing that he noticed about Pathfinder that day, that he didn’t want to notice. His overbearing kindness that he didn’t deserve and his naivety that made him far more endearing than he’d like to admit. All these other legends were plagued, be it by vengeance, oaths, self-entitled glory, or riches and fame, except for Pathfinder, Pathfinder was pure. His only intention being to know why he existed and what he was even here for.

Bullets blur in the air as the enemy squads fire at them, causing Pathfinder to hastily grapple away, he had no second weapon, and no remaining ammo for his Volt. He himself had only a Mastiff, his luck draining out of him the longer the match went on, forcing both he and Pathfinder to run around like mad men, careful to avoid the incoming ring, ring flares, and enemy squads. Speaking of, whoever was shooting at them is now distracted by another team pushing into the bunker, giving him the perfect time to crawl his way to the pit. Pathfinder is dashing towards him again, attempting to drag him to safety, it stings his wounds, though it feels like nothing compared to his touch that burns into his back as he lifts him up. The pit is quiet, the surrounding cliff drowning out the noise of rampant gunfire and distant explosions, Pathfinder is rummaging through his backpack for a syringe, dragging one out and popping off the cap.

“I’ve got you friend.” His voice is soft and light, as if he isn’t at all stressed about the three squads fighting just around the corner.

He’s revelling in it, in the hurt that spreads through his body and singes each aching live wire of being held in his arms, if he shuts off his eyes it’s just a hug, a welcome embrace and not the act of being revived by someone who’s just a teammate. Pathfinder is suddenly dropping the syringe and leaning over him so closely he’s almost certain he’s about to kiss him in some weird robot way, something like the mushing of face plates together or the sharing of electrical current. Not that he’d love it any less.

However, the kiss never comes and the sound of running footsteps echoing around the pit explains what Pathfinder is doing, he’s hiding them, because he has no ammo and little health, but all of that is in the far and hazy distance as he struggles to keep his hands at his side instead of brushing against the intricate details of his outer thighs, like he was the engineer to create him. He shuffles impossibly closer, ducking his head down against his chest whilst still keeping a palm against his bleeding wound, he wonders if he can simulate a heartbeat with the thrum of his wires or if Pathfinder can feel it anyway, the way he overheats.

If this is how he dies, staring up into the sky surrounded by sandy cliffs and fresh grass, with an armful of MRVN, he thinks he wouldn’t mind, dare he even say it’d be the most content death he’s ever had, even if it does ache that he can’t touch him. He could never touch him, intimately that is, he feels one press of his sinful hands will taint him, impure his good soul, so he keeps it to himself. He can’t quite be as harsh as he once was, though. With each look Pathfinder passes his way he feels his magnetic heart connect to his being. Christ, he has him wrapped around his finger and he’s not even angry about it.

Whoever is walking about is nearing the pit, and Pathfinder grips him all the tighter, his fingertips have begun to tingle with how strongly he wishes he could hold him there against his chest. He relaxes his head back against the sand, shit, the bullet is seriously starting to sting his insides, he doesn’t care that baring his neck this way is an act of vulnerability, he knows Pathfinder wouldn’t do him any harm. Even if he deserved it. And Christ does he deserve it, with all the damage he’s done in the past three hundred years, not that he particularly cares for skin suits anymore, not after what they did to him. Nonetheless, Pathfinder has many skin suit friends, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t care what he thought about him. Everyone else can fuck off, but if Pathfinder ends up hating him one day, he isn’t sure what he’d do to himself, even if he could easily understand why.

Pathfinder is warm against him, radiating heat between their chests and inside his chassis like a little radiator, and this close, he can catch every scent that encompasses him. Of flowers and sweets and summer air and he makes a strange whine in the back of his throat, because _fuck,_ he’s right there and he’s never felt further away from what he wants most, what he wants more than anything. Pathfinder angles his head down quickly and eases off of him slightly, afraid his weight was crushing him, and he grabs his arm before he knows what he’s doing and lets him lower back down onto him in an awkward straddle. His core is whirring like a jet taking off and he should be embarrassed, but he’s far too busy entranced by the way Pathfinder lowers onto him like a lover. His mind races, fantasising what he would look like sinking down onto his cock from above, pressing all of his weight onto his thighs, or beneath him, pliant and trusting like he always is.

He lets go of his arm, wishing his could swallow past the lump in his throat as he whisks away those thoughts for tonight, where he could be alone and berate himself for thinking such thoughts about another robot. About Pathfinder.

Pathfinder leans up to look around like an eager cat and he can feel the fondness seeping out of him like a leak he can’t stop, isn’t sure he wants to stop. The sun paints him in shades of tender orange and this time, he’s fully aware of his hand reaching for his face. The abrupt eye contact makes him freeze, and his hand drifts towards his shoulder instead. _Coward_ , his mind supplies. With the other squads wandering off, Pathfinder sits up, and with him draws all the comforting warmth leaving a chill in its place. He hikes him up in his lap and he is reminded of all those ancient renaissance paintings he observed in Art Museums in his skin suit days, depicting an angel tending to a wicked soul with all the glow and radiance of heavenly security.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” He assures when he grunts at the syringe entering his body, although he does it with gentle hands it still stings like a bitch.

With that, he pulls him to his feet and he doesn’t want to let go of his hand, it fits perfectly in his, he notices, even so its slipping away before he can relish in it. Pathfinders attention is drifting away from him, his kind gaze falling to the open supply bins instead and he feels a phantom sickness rise in his throat, he wants his gaze back on _him_.

“Thank you.” He spurts, but it grants the attention he so longs for.

“You’re welcome! I love you too.” A laugh bubbles up from his chest, although he doesn’t find it funny. It’s the type of self-deprecating laugh that borders on a sob as he wishes those words were true. Oh, how he wishes. They’re not, they could never be, Pathfinder would never choose a depressed Simulacrum who had more deranged issues than good qualities. Ha, as if he had good qualities to begin with.

He still ate those words up like a starving man, storing them away to repeat to himself later in the darkness of his room.

“Let’s go, friend!” Pathfinder has seemingly found some loose ammo around whilst he was in his thoughts, and he flinches slightly at the robot holding his wrist and tugging him along.

He didn’t need to grab his wrist, he would have followed him anyway, trailing after him like an abandoned pup enamoured with the softness of a gentle giant. In a moment of boldness, he rearranges their hands so they’re intertwined, trembling slightly with all the finesse of a nervous school girl. Pathfinder stares at him, and although he says nothing, his screen is glowing like he’s trying to rival the sun itself. Eventually, his fingers tighten around his hand, sealing their palms together and bounces off, never letting him out of his grasp.

It still aches like each wire has been squeezed, his insides sizzle and feel rubbed raw with want, but right now, he doesn’t mind it. With Pathfinders hand in his, everything is quiet and content. For now, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> <3


End file.
